Change Of Fate
by Embersprite
Summary: John is afraid that Sherlock will destroy himself trying to bring down Moriarty. Because Sherlock may be a genius but he is no soldier. Romance (slash and het) is a long way off guys. Heads up for POSSIBLE drug use, suicide talk, blood and gore, and smut. johnlock
1. The Game Begins

It had been raining all week, a freezing deluge that left the Thames River engorged, roiling angrily in its overfilled banks. Its slate grey waters rushed loudly enough that you had to strain to hear the sirens wailing from the fleet of police cars clustered along the side of the embankments. A hundred voices shouted at each other into phones and radios and ears while camera flashes popped like so many tiny cracks of lightning nearly disappearing in the wake of the real thing roaring in the heavens above the heads of these onlookers.

Some crazy nutter had blown up a perfectly good bridge and everybody in London seemed to want a firsthand view of the proceedings.

DI. Gregory Lestrade was less than impressed. Spinning around to address the only person present likely to have any idea as to what the hell was going on he was stunned by the vision in front of him. He had known Sherlock Holmes for just over six years and he could honestly say he had seen the man at his best. He had also thought he had seen him at his worst, blotchy skinned and skeletal hopped up on enough cocaine to horrify any rehab center. But he had never seen him like this.

Eyes that were normally a disdainful icy blue were dull and ringed in an irritated red. If the man wasn't crying now (and how could anybody tell when standing in this infernal rain?) he would be soon. His skin had abandoned its normal porcelain paleness in favor of a sickening grey. His fists were clenched unthinkingly at his sides white knuckled and shaking. And most astonishing of all was the fact that the man was silent. Sherlock Holmes was at a crime scene, but he wasn't deducing anything. He wasn't butting into any of it. He wasn't forcing his way into the center of the group of forensic specialists grousing about the collective stupidity of the entirety of the Scotland Yard. He was just standing there… hyperventilating.

Warily Lestrade approached him, placing a cautious hand on his elbow. "Sherlock? Sherlock what is going on?" He started. Then, glancing around, Greg realized what was missing from the scene. He hadn't seen Sherlock without John in so long it was frankly embarrassing that it had taken him this long to notice the little army doctor's absence. "Sherlock, where's John?"

The trembling form of the consulting detective froze, his haunted eyes snapping to meet those of the confused Detective inspector. But he didn't answer. Instead he took one more short, painful sounding gasp of soggy air and promptly fainted at Gregory's feet.

Shocked, all DI. Lestrade could do was stare at the younger man lying in the mud. What the hell was going on? And really, who was going to explain this to Mycroft? And where the hell was John?

* * *

**_One Week Later_**

Sherlock sat numbly in the front pew of the church Harry had chosen for John's funeral. Though, he wondered vaguely, did it count as a funeral if there was no body? None had ever been found. At first this had offered some hope that John had somehow, someway, managed to get to safety in time. John was a soldier he could have _should have_ found a way. But as minutes turned to hours turned to days it became clear that John (**_Oh God_** **_JOHN_**) was gone. John never would have left Sherlock waiting.

But the time for hope was over. This was the time for goodbyes. John's mother had already been to see him before the service started. She had yelled at Sherlock, because he had pulled John into this life of puzzles and crime solving. Because Sherlock hadn't saved John. Because Sherlock had lived while John had died.

She was right of course, not that Sherlock had agreed to her face. Sherlock hadn't said a single word to anybody since the night of the bridge explosion. But yes John's mother was absolutely correct. After all Sherlock was the one who had kept the pink phone and used it to stay in contact with a madman. Sherlock was the one who could not keep from running straight towards any interesting danger he could find which had gained him the attention of Moriarty in the first place. Sherlock was the one who had pulled John in and kept him there, all because Sherlock was to selfish to let go of the only person he had ever truly liked, had so unwisely allowed himself to make a friend when he knew damn well a screwed up freak like him didn't deserve one. Especially not a friend as brave and kind and patient as John Hamish Watson.

Staring blankly at the flowers around the empty coffin (John hated flowers, they made him sneeze didn't these people, John's _family_ know that?) he wondered what John would have said. He would never have agreed with his mother, John always stood up for Sherlock. What would John say about burying an empty coffin filled not with his person but with several of his most treasured possessions, as if some material goods would make a sufficient standby for the fact that John was not in there. Not John and not even his empty shell-that-use-to-house-him? John would probably just be upset that nobody thought that any of his dreadful jumpers had qualified as suitably sentimental. He had loved those cable- knitted monstrosities. Sherlock wondered what he would do with them.

Harry had wanted Sherlock to speak for John. Stand up in front of this group and talk about John, tell a story or some such, but he just couldn't bring himself to. Speaking and gone the way of eating and sleeping. Useless irrelevant and for the time being impossible.

Mycroft had tried to get him to sleep, even going so far as drugging Sherlock's coffee. The elder Holmes had forced Sherlock to stay with him fearing that he would relapse back into cocaine and heroin without supervision. The fact that Sherlock had not only allowed it but didn't deny it at all had Mycroft resorting to drastic measures in his concern.

The sleep didn't help. As soon as Sherlock closed his eyes he was back by the bridge on the muddy rain drenched grass to afraid to move, staring across it at John, once more in Moriarty's clutches, not two meters away from the bomb and less than one from the madman himself. He could hear Moriarty's mocking words gloating about how he would burn Sherlock's heart out. He saw John snap his eyes to meet Sherlock, his eyes and lips full of apologies (as if this were somehow JOHN'S fault) before turning and informing Moriarty that he was no longer willing to be Sherlock's weakness. Snapping the ties around his wrists John had lunged and grabbed the gun from Moriarty's hands before spinning and, much like Sherlock had at the pool, shot the bomb. Then there was hell.

They had found pieces of Moriarty, a leg, some… goop. Of John there was nothing.

Sherlock had screamed himself horse unable to wake up from the drugs. Mycroft hadn't made him sleep again.

"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said softly making Sherlock start and stare at her. "The service is over Sherlock." She whispered grief clear in her eyes.

Sherlock nodded sharply and glanced around for Mycroft who he had come with.

"Sherlock, Harry wants to talk to you before you leave." Mrs. Hudson stated.

Flinching Sherlock nodded, was Harry going to yell at him too?

"Please come back to Baker street when you can dear", she said with a watery tremulous smile before moving slowly away.

With a sigh Sherlock moved searching for Harry, wanting to get it over with so that he could leave, spotting her finally already walking quickly towards him and away from a frowning Mycroft.

Taking Sherlock's elbow she wordlessly steered him out of the church before turning to speak to him.

"One of the recovery workers at the bridge found something this morning and they brought it to me." She said fiddling with something in her pocket. "I know that mum blames you for" she waves her hand nebulously "everything that has happened. But she didn't see him after he came back from the war. My brother was dying, slowly. The war may have hurt him but leaving the army, it was like the civilian world had captured him in a jar and was slowly suffocating him. When he met you… that changed. It was like having him back, my brother, instead of the stranger he had become. He was happy. You were his best friend, all he would ever talk about when he bothered to call was Sherlock said this and he deduced that and Sherlock is so brilliant. So I think that he would have wanted you to have them." She said tearfully holding out her clenched fist.

Reaching out a trembling hand Sherlock accepted Harry's offering. With a metallic clink John's dogtags fell into his palm. They were burnished now and dented in places but easily readable, and wearable.

Harry, clearly having said her piece leaned forward and hugged him. Awkwardly patting her on the back he held his breath, and gratefully released it when she let go.

"Don't be a stranger alright? John thought of you as family and that makes you one of us." She said

Sherlock didn't promise anything and when he didn't react at all Harry just sighed sadly.

"I'll see you around." She said and walked away.

Sherlock stood for a moment in indecision before unclipping the chain of the tags and quickly re-clipping them around his own neck. John, Sherlock's only friend, would hang over his heart forever as a reminder never to open up or let anybody in ever again. John was special and Sherlock would never forget him.

That finished Sherlock gave one last long look at the coffin that would never hold his friend before walking stiffly to Mycroft's waiting car.

* * *

More than one hundred miles away the man once known as John Watson calmly drove down the road in the dingy car he had bought cash- in- hand taking the very first steps on his rode to destroying Moriarty's web. John was no genius, but he was a soldier. It was his job to protect his friends and family. Sherlock, bless him, could never have done it, he was all brain and no experience in these covert operations. And anyway Sherlock had never had to kill someone before, and John didn't want him to start now.

Pulling into the parking lot of a shabby store he quickly pulled out his prepaid phone to call his army buddies waiting for him up north. He wanted to let them know that everything was going as planned. After all he would need all the help he could get and the boys that had helped train him in covert warfare were more than willing. This was what men like them, men like John, lived for.

And John could finally feel like he had repaid Sherlock for all he had done, without his help John's limp and depression would have destroyed him. He wondered if Sherlock would ever forgive him when this was all over. Probably not, but he could worry about that later. Right now he needed hair dye, make up, and tea.


	2. Heat Waves And First Moves

Warnings : I am not having this beta-ed as of now ( though if you volunteer cool beans) I am writing when i have the inspiration to help with my depression. It is likely this fic will be re-written someday, maybe. I love Sherlock but the events/time line/ pairings will be manipulated to serve this fic. Sorry but (shrug) that's the beauty of fanfiction you can do as you like.

I do not own Sherlock nor do i make any money for doing this. Fooey.

* * *

It was an abnormally warm day, the sort that use to bother John the most. Sherlock remembered the first time he had noticed John's odd behavior after he had moved into Baker Street. It would have made sense for John to hate the cold, it would stiffen his muscles and cause him pain, or so Sherlock assumed based on his (extensive) understanding of the type of injuries the military man had. He would find out later that while the cold did aggravate John's shoulder he didn't really mind it all that much. It was the hot weather that John had a true problem with.

John had been living with Sherlock for several weeks and London had been having unusually hot weather. At first it started small with tense shoulder muscles and a slightly terser tone of voice. Sherlock had written it off as John finally noticing the pig intestines Sherlock had left in the refrigerator that morning. The normally amiable doctor had spent most of the day puttering around the flat not really accomplishing anything but snapping if interrupted, Sherlock had wondered what was wrong but hadn't asked. There had been no cases for over a week and deducing the cause of John's ire would surely be better than another day contemplating how boring the world was.

It hadn't been the intestines. When Sherlock had pulled them out to begin an experiment John hadn't so much as twitched, at least no more than he had already been doing. John had not acknowledged them at all, he had been too busy staring unhappily out the window eyes unfocused and clearly only present in the most physical of senses. It only took moments for Sherlock to deduce that John was watching the heat waves rising from the ground. It wasn't until just before the time that John went to bed that a cab backfired directly in front of the flat and Sherlock began to understand. John had tensed up like a piano string and grabbed wildly for the gun at his waste that was not there. For John hot weather brought back memories of hot deserts.

That night Sherlock had become acquainted with John's nightmares. Horrible muffled cries and sobs. John had spent the entire night alternately whimpering and begging for the forgiveness of people that Sherlock would never know.

Sherlock began to mentally refer to these nights as John's danger nights. Every time John would have a danger night Sherlock would hear him quietly pull his gun out of its hiding place (taped to the backside of his bedside table) and Sherlock knew that John would cradle it and, after the worst nights, sometimes raise it to his temple. But John never pulled the trigger.

They never spoke about it. John knew that Sherlock knew but neither would mention it. John didn't want to and Sherlock didn't know how. Caring was very much not his area. It seemed to help though that Sherlock would have a cup of tea waiting for John on the counter when he would come down. On those mornings they would sit in the living room and watch crap telly or tag team the crossword puzzle in the newspaper and Sherlock would never complain about how boring it was.

Eventually Sherlock learned that he could often aid John through music. When he would first hear John's dreams taking hold a few hours of Bach, or Mozart or just making up something gentle and positive sounding would ease John into more pleasant or at least less unpleasant dreams.

Sherlock wondered if John still cared now that he was dead. How horrible it would be to be trapped in the land of nightmares but unable to move or cry or hear his flat mate make it better. Did heat waves bother John if he wasn't alive to feel them? Probably not, but Sherlock couldn't take that chance.

Climbing out of the cab it took less than three minutes to cross the cemetery to John's headstone. Even if John wasn't really in there hopefully he would still hear and know that he wasn't alone.

The setting sun was just turning the sky a bloody heat hazy pink-red as the first long wavering note of a violin filled the late summer air, marking the beginning of a private concert that no one would hear.

On the other side of London, in the offices used solely by the elite staff of Mycroft Holmes, all hell was breaking loose.

* * *

Striding down the corridor of the plush if bland office building Mycroft Holmes listened intently to Anthea as she rapidly explained what she could of the scant news she had received.

It wasn't good.

Someone had somehow hacked into their computer system and had stolen all of the intelligence that had been gathered on James Moriarty's network.

Entering the blue conference room he took his place at the head of the, rather crowded, long elegant cherry wood table and took a deep calming breath.

To his immediate left was a large bald man with a rather impressive bushy brown mustache that perfectly matched his bushy brown eyebrows. In all honesty the man looked like he would be more at home climbing mountains than sitting in board meetings. Clifton Arlington was the head of security for the building and it was his job to know every computer, person, password, and speck of dust that resided within its top secret walls. This man was in charge of national security on a level that only Mycroft and the Queen herself surpassed, and he was very good at his job.

Not waiting for Mycroft to speak Clifton launched into an explanation of what they knew.

"Just over three hours ago our computer network was breached by persons unknown. Our systems were hacked from a remote thus far untraceable computer."

"How." Mycroft demanded.

"They had our passwords." Clifton said

Impossible, there was only one set of passwords that could penetrate the information base remotely and that were Mycroft's "Our… "

"Passwords." Clifton agreed. "More specifically yours, they had your password, backup passwords, info-number, account number and clearance codes, which is why the problem wasn't spotted sooner. It wasn't until the all of the files pertaining to James Moriarty were downloaded and then the original copies destroyed, completely against procedure, that the latent alarms were sounded. We have been trying to track down the computer that this was done from but so far have been unsuccessful. I have to ask sir, when they are found I would very much like to… research how this was done, it shouldn't have been possible. Is there any chance your brother… "

"No." Mycroft interrupted. "I can assure you that he had nothing to do with this. He is, of course, quite capable (Sherlock had gleefully hacked in several times the past just to prove that he could) but I'm afraid Sherlock's attention is quite firmly elsewhere at the moment."

And it was. Mycroft had been informed that his brother had snuck out hours ago and was currently serenading John Watson's tombstone. His brilliant little brother was a mess (And still so painfully silent even three weeks after the funeral and four since the incident.) and Mycroft was at a loss as to how he could be fixed. And now this… Sherlock was going to go ballistic when he found out. And he would. Mycroft had noticed Sherlock covertly gathering data about Moriarty's sniper, having come to the (correct as far as Mycroft's contacts could tell) conclusion that Moriarty had a favorite that had been with him not only at the pool but also at the bridge who was still running free. Mycroft knew that Sherlock would be off and running to avenge his doctor soon.

"You know what to do. Keep me informed." Mycroft finished.

Clifton and his team knew what that meant, nothing good for the people responsible for this. It wasn't often Mycroft Holmes took special interest into these things but it never turned out well for those responsible when he did.

* * *

In the little market town of Rothbury, England John Watson and his comrades, brothers in arms, and all around fellow patriotic mischief makers cheerfully toasted themselves on a job well done while pouring over the vast amounts of intelligence gained from the files they had just stolen from Mycroft Holmes.


End file.
